


Level up and live again

by kmary



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, POV Alternating, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26389720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmary/pseuds/kmary
Summary: Human AU where Aziraphale and Crowley have lived ordinary, if somewhat lonely lives up until their late forties with nothing to show for but a dusty old bookshop (nearing bankruptcy) and an antique car (heavily indebted).One day they are charged with carrying out deeds for Heaven and Hell,.
Kudos: 1





	Level up and live again

Mr Fell inherited the bookshop from uncle Al, his only and last living relative. As an occupation, retailing used books is not wholly unwelcome to him. He likes books. Unfortunately, the particular bookshop his uncle left him, although in a prime spot in Soho, is a poor foundation for a successful business. Most of the books are largely uninteresting, a lot of them in bad shape, and no matter how much Mr Fell dusts and cleans and airs the rooms, the weird smell in them never goes away. 

Moreover, Mr Fell has a suspicion that old uncle Al must have used the bookshop as a front for some really rather less legal business dealings, as however Mr Fell tries to make sense of the bookkeeping, the fact is that the shop ought to have been foreclosed many times over in the last few decades.

This is also evident in the unimaginative assortment, and poor quality of the books left by their previous owner, and more to the point, the lack of customers. Mr Fell, however, with no other clear option presenting itself, is determined to make the best of the situation, (even if he was spooked by the tax investigation the shop was subjected to, the first time “some actual real numbers”, as the inspector had put it, were submitted in the tax returns).

_ Spooked _ , is a word he is trying to keep out of his mind at the current moment, as on this particular Wednesday afternoon not only one, which would be unusual in itself, but three customers have entered the store. Only they aren't really behaving in the way Mr Fell has become familiar with in his few and far in between clientele.

The two quiet ones are prowling the bookshelves, seeming more interested in the structural integrity of the furniture than the books they hold, and their occasional hums, and clicking of their tongues, are distracting Mr Fell from the talkative one, who's standing in the middle of the floor, gazing around and commenting on the architecture and property values. 

The man locks his dark gaze into Mr Fell, causing a cold shiver to run down his spine; the meaning of their visit clearly communicated through his menacing stare. One of the companions has decided to speak and is in the middle of lamenting the flammability of paper, when suddenly interrupted by a high pitched sound behind Mr Fell's back, one that reminds him of a sword leaving it’s scabbard. The leading man's eyes widen, the companions fall still. A moment, and the silence is broken by a soft sigh behind Mr Fell’s back, and a new voice speaks:

"Begone."

The bell above the door rings as three people leave the shop. However, the bell doesn’t still, and the ringing continues to echo in Mr. Fells ears when he whips around to see his new visitor, and even still as his body travels towards the floor at the sight that greets him. It occurs to Mr Fell that he is fainting. 

"Aziraphale," he hears the entity call.

_ That's not my name, _ Mr Fell hears himself thinking, but as the darkness takes him, he can't recall it being anything else.

\---

Anthony Crowley is fucked. In his line of business it is hardly an uncommon fate, but as all crooks he had imagined himself clever enough to avoid it. But alas, such is the folly of man, and Anthony is now absolutely, thoroughly, royally fucked.

He had been so careful, so meticulous in his scams that in the forty-odd years since he first learned to tell a lie at age five, and more to the point since he was taught by his late mother not to be  _ caught _ lying, he had never once, discounting his few run-ins with the law, been in such a desperate situation as he finds himself in at this moment.

Anthony is good at what he does. He has built himself from the ground up from running minor pyramid-schemes, to medium-sized telemarketing companies, to major investment frauds. He was on his way to living the dream, finally affording that penthouse he had been aspiring to for the last decade, the one with the large windows and spacious rooms and that gaudy white leather couch. One last big job, is what they had told him. He should have sniffed out their cutthoat scheme right at the start. 

But the promised reward had been just a little bit big enough, the satisfaction of a well planned hustle just tempting enough, that Anthony had ignored the niggling at the back of his neck (at least he now tells himself he had felt something), packed his bags and left the country, only to realise at his return that he had been stabbed in the back, robbed and thrown under the bus to boot. And it wasn't long before the collectors would come knocking to get their promised share of the now non-existent profits.

Anthony forgoes his glass and takes a swig from his bottle. The room is slowly turning around him, a sign he is well on his way to succeed in his current plan: getting blackout drunk and letting the troubles of the world not be his for as long as he can. He can hear something pounding in the near distance, could be from his front door at the top of the stairs, or it could be from inside his head. The headache, he muses, of an overindulgence of alcohol is infinitely preferable to the one he is sure to recieve when his body- and head- will beaten in by steel-eyed and steel-booted henchmen, unless he can think of a way out of this mess.

His car. Oh, they are sure to take his car. A sob escapes him as Anthony comes to this realisation. 

A shadow appears in the doorway, and Anthony’s drunken grief suddenly turns to rage as he launches himself off his seat and lunges screaming at the shape he assumes is a person. Only his aim isn’t what it could be, because he stumbles past them, and falls to the carpet in a heap. His ears are buzzing and dark spots are flying before his eyes, and he shakes his head to try and clear his mind. 

“Y-youuu’re no’takin’er,” Anthony slurs at the room. “She’s mine! You can’take th’Bently.”

The black spots congregate to a single black mass, and Anthony squints to make out who he now is fairly sure is a person staring back at him with open disgust.

“Rizzse,” they speak, although their voice sounds as of distorted by static. Anthony raises his bottle to his mouth to take another sip. The person sighs and makes a gesture with their hand and suddenly Anthony finds himself pulled to his feet by someone who must have stood behind him. Only when he turns around there’s no-one there.

He sways back to the person and as they finish another complicated looking hand gesture a cold feeling rushes through Anthony, then as if something is gets yanked right out of his bloodstream, and when his eyes clear as they’re no longer blurred by the alcohol, he finally gets a good look at his visitor, and he proceeds to scream his head off.

“Silenzz!” the half-rotten, fly-infested, evil-eyed being commands, and Anthony falls silent against his will.

“Crowley,” the being buzzes, “it hazz been dezzided to make you a demon of Hell.”

_ This is not the solution I wanted _ , Crowley has time to think, before all of Hell’s demonic knowledge gets dropped into his brain at once.


End file.
